


Decades

by whatthefrickfrackpaddywack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, Dean thinks they're married, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hilarity Ensues, Just cuteness and smut, Pining Sam, but only a little bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11361942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack/pseuds/whatthefrickfrackpaddywack
Summary: "Are we undercover police officers?" I ask. Sam looks at the gun in my hand wearily before he steps forward and takes it, unloads the bullets and puts it back in the bag."Please don't touch the guns.""But they're shiny.""Oh my god, I think I hate you."(The one where Dean gets amnesia and thinks him and Sam are married.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I was NOT going to make another multi chaptered fic but HERE WE ARE now enjoy it and let me cry over all the one-shots I shall never write.

The walls are white.

Sterilized with kitchen cleaner and overlaid with the chemical taste of bleach. It burns my nose, making it scrunch up and flair. The bed feels too small, scratchy cotten sheets fitted over reusable mattresses, made for someone who takes up less space. Someone with shorter legs and a smaller chest and much more pain killers in their system holy _fuck-_

There's an ache at the back of my head; throbbing and overwhelmed  and I can't recognize anything except the pain and the annoying sharpness of consciousness. Not the starched sheets drawn up to my chin, not the plaster ceiling, not the sterile glow of the bleach soaked room and the clatter of the monitoring machines, nothing. 

I start hyperventilating.

My tounge tastes acrid and heavy in my mouth, slick smooth something shoved down my throat. My chest feels hollow, skin stretched too tight over hands gripped to shiny steralized plastic.

Well. One hand.

The other is currently sandwhiched between two huge ass hands attached to what looks like a tall wet puppy.

I don't recognize him, can't seem to find his name in my head and it's fucking _obvious_  that he must know mine because he seems to shed fifty years when he meets my gaze, the creases about the corners of his eyes and mouth coming undone in an instant.

The kid leans forwards over the bed, making as if to run his hand through my hair. He stops halfway there, held back.

His eyes are  _huge,_ staring down with this terrifying intensity that immediately makes the heart monitor hooked up to my wrist start beeping.

"Dean," he says tentivley.

I try to suck in a breath but just choke on the tube.

"Dean, oh my god,  _Dean,_ thank god thank god c'mon, breathe, that's it, slowly now-"

Dean?

The name sounds familiar in that tip-of-your-tounge way, when you're trying to remember something but can't quite reach the space between your brain and where you've repressed it.

It fits, though. Sounds butch. Like someone Batman would kick ass with.

I decide I like it.

The kid releases his death grip on my hand to press gently on my chest, rubbing soothing circles through my hospital gown.

Hospitals.

Shit. I  _hate_ hospitals.

I think.

I try to say as much, but the tube in my mouth makes me choke, and I start hyperventilating again.

The kid shushes me, talks me down, mutters something about a "stupid idea, why the  _hell_ would you jump in front of that hex you  _jerk."_ I quirk one eyebrow, confused at what the crap he's talking about, but instead of answers he just rolls his eyes and squeezes my hand tighter, as if he expected that response.Tension I hadn't noticed he was holding leaks out of his body, lanky limbs falling loose like noodles.

"You scared me," He whispers, not looking at me. Like it's some kinda secret girly shit. I furrow my brow, squeeze his hand back gently because there's gotta be some fucking reason he won't let go of it. He sighs, seems reassured by it somehow.

"Sorry, I'll... let go I'm a minute." He looks up at me through his bangs, big brown eyes with purple bags underneath them. He needs a haircut.

There's that feeling again, the tip-of-your-tounge sensation that says I should know who the hell he is, but as soon as I start digging it's gone again. I feel like I've been shot, and _why the fuck_ do I know what that feels like. I try n' concentrate on breathing till the nurses arrive and get me detached from the fucking tube.

One of them shines a flashlight in my eye, watching the pupils dilate. She's got chesnut hair, same color as the kid in the chair next to me. She gives a satisfied hum and scribbles something down on her clipboard.

"You have us quite a scare, Mr. Thompson. The MRI brought back nothing, but you were still out cold. I gotta say, your case is beyond confusing." She smiles slightly, looks me up and down. I grin and lean forward as far as my aching body will allow, kinda wanting to call her out for lewd behavior, but instead I stiffle a wince as the kid still holding my  _freaking hand_ suddenly turns his passive touch into a goddamn death grip. He isn't looking at me.

Heh. Jealous much?

The thought brings warmth to my head, makes me blink a few times with the wave of affection swooping into my bones. Whoever this guy is, he's gotta be fucking important to make the mighty Dean Thompson wanna do the macerana with commitment.

Thompson. I wrinkles my nose at the name. It sounds wierd. Not Batman-esque in the slightest.

The nurse taptaptaps her pencil against her board, eyes still fixed on me. I don't feel uncomfortable under the gaze, (I actually feel kinda cool,) but the puppy dog boy is so obviously seething where he sits that I look away and cough, hoping she gets the idea before I end up with my ass on the couch tonight.

Huh. Wierd thought.

I don't think I own a couch.

She must get the hint, because her cheeks tint an adorable shade of red and she clears her throat, eyes on the non-existent space between me and puppy-dog boy. She says some medical jargon, has a colleague take a blood sample, and asks me the offhand-but-neccisary question listed on her concussion sheet.

"What year is it, Mr. Thompson?"

Uh.

"Uh." I say, blinking.

She looks up, eyes narrowing slightly in "medical concentration." I feel kinda like I'm in an episode of Dr. Sexy, and that thought makes me remember  _wow, there's a show called Dr. Sexy!_

"Okay, let's go for a different one. Who's the president?"

My face heats up. "Uh. I can't remember."

Silence for a moment, fractured by the whirr of the monitoring machines and the labored come and go of my still adjusting breathing. Finally, the guy holding my hand shifts forwards.

"What's my name?" He says softly. Steady.

Prepared.

I start to sweat. "I..I'm sorry, man. I got nothin'."

Five minutes later, the rooms a flurry of activity, different doctors coming and going and all asking stupid fucking questions.

"What's your mothers maiden name?"

"Where did you graduate college?"

"What's the capital of Ecuador?"

Nope, nothing, and how the  _fuck_ would I know that? 

"Quito," The kid says softly, as he let's go of my hand.

It tingles where it's lying limply on the bed, already missing the warmth of callouses and too big palms around it.

I don't reach for it back.

They keep asking, I keep shaking my head, frustration growing steadily stronger and stronger until I'm twitching every time someone opens there mouth.

How can I make it any more obvious that I  _don't remember anything!?_

They finally leave, tests and blood work and cat scans bringing up nothing but the obvious conclusion that I could 'a pointed out the minute I woke up.

Amnesia.

Buncha incompetent fucktards.

The kid next to me smacks me upside the head at the quip.

"They're medical professionals, Dean. Just 'cause you've got a phobia of hospitals doesn't mean they don't know what they're doing."

"Oh, so that's why this place makes me wanna crawl outta my skin." My voice is still coming out hoarse, wrists too thin where the IV's bruise the veins they connect to. "Dude, do you think that nurse would've put out?"

I laugh at the disgusted look on the kids face.

"Dude,  _gross._ Stop objectifying the doctors."

"Oh come on, she was _totally_ making eyes at me."

"Yeah whatever, she would've jumped your bones an hour ago if you weren't insisting you graduated from Hogwarts."

I smiled slightly, that warmth still stuck in my chest when I glanced at him. "Nah. I think she got the idea."

The kid looks up from his computer, quizzical expression in his puppy dog eyes. "What're you talking about?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Uh. I thought it was obvious?"

Shit.

Maybe I read this wrong.

I scratch the back of my neck and reach out, thumb and index finger tugging on the kid's sleeve. He looks up.

"What's, uh. What's your name?"

He shakes slightly, like the weight on his shoulders when I woke up has just been added back, twice as heavy as before.

"Sam." He whispers. Clears his throat and tires again. "Uh, Sam Winchester. You, uh. You call me Sammy."

Sammy.

Sammy Bammy  _Sam._

It fits, more than it has any right to.

I tug again till his arm falls loose, keep in my sigh of relief when I get his hand back in mine. "Well, nice ta meetcha Sammy. So who's balls do I gotta fondle to get a burger in this place?"

He shreikes slightly and punches me in the shoulder, looking annoyed. But he doesn't pull his hand away.

He doesn't make an effort to hold on, either.

I think again, search that affection booming in my chest, try and find an alternate reason for its being there.

Am I reading this wrong?

 --------------------------------------

The next few days are a whirlwind of therapy sessions and brain scans. I feel like ripping my teeth out as they keep bringing about nothing, over and over again as the days wear on and my memory stays gone. Sam stays with me, dozes upright in the too small armchair at the side of the bed, swallows the bitter hospital coffee in the morning, argues with the doctors and checks my pulse and forces me to eat.

Nothing is telling me who Sam Winchester is.

It gets weirder when I overhear the doctors talking about the "accident"; falling off of a ladder. But they use the wrong last name when they're talking about Sam, talking about my _l_ _ife._ It all feels fake and photocopied. According to the nurses, I'm a newspaper writer, in town for a few days to write an article on Giant Pumpkins. According to the little bits of information Sam is letting slip, we're partners in something that's beginning to sound more and more illegal with every glance at his computer screen, every slip up of the obviously fake story he's going with. I pretend right along with him, try and stick to what the nurses apparently believe.

It would be easier to lie if I actually REMEMBERED what the fuck I was lying about.

Every time I ask, Sam looks indecisive. Scared, almost.

"I'll tell you everything when we get out of here, Dean."

"Here" apparently includes the town, since as soon as I get released from the hospital he's _still_ refusing to spill.

"Are we mafia? Am I a crime boss?" I ask excitedly, trying to distract from the way my legs feel like jelly. "Are you my secretary slash secret marshal arts body guard?" I gasp. "Do I have  _abs!?"_

Turns out I do.

"Dean, I am n _ot poking your abs,_  now will you  _please_ pull your shirt down and get in the car?" Sam's blushing again, up to the tips of his ears. I stop poking my stomach and look up. I reach out an tuck a strand of chestnut hair behind a red ear.

He blinks. "Dude."

I shrug and pull my shirt down, smoothing the worn fabric comfortably over my skin. Hospital gowns are itchy as _shit,_ and Sam said this was my favorite t-shirt. Its gotta be, considering Led Zeplinn is my favorite band.

Then I remember Led Zeplinn.

I grin again. "So, no mafia?"

Sam shakes his head in exsasperation. "No, Dean. No mafia."

"Well what about witness protection? At _l_ _east_ tell me we're drug dealers."

But then I see the car, and I start freaking out about how  _beautiful_ she is, and Sam doesn't even complain too much when I insist on driving her. 

He's giving me directions to the motel, ("So we're bounty hunters who're in town to pick up a-" "No, Dean.") And I slip my hand on top of his thigh.

He tenses up all the way to his shoulders, hand fisted in the fabric of his jeans. I can see his jaw working out of the corner of my eye.

I squeeze gently and start singing along to the radio.

He doesn't relaxed. But he doesn't try and push my hand off, either.

Am I reading this wrong?

The situation only grows weirder when we get to the motel. The furniture is a jumble by the walls, a huge map of newspaper clippings and different herbs formed on the floor in a vaugly familiar pattern, random words circled in red ink and ancient books piled in the corners. It seems like me and Sam share a bed; The other one is covered in different weapons, guns and knives and fucking _wooden stakes, holy shit,_ and there's lines of salt in the doorway and by both the windows; even the fucking  _bathroom._ I pick up one of the guns from a faded green duffle bag. It sits comfortably in my hand, makes me grin, hidden stories in its handle that I'm itching to uncover.

"Are we undercover police officers?" I ask. Sam looks at the gun in my hand wearily before he steps forward and takes it, unloads the bullets and puts it back in the bag.

"Please don't touch the guns."

"But they're shiny."

"Oh my god, I think i hate you."

Sam heads out for burgers, me sneaking a peak at the inside of his wallet while he's in the bathroom. There's five credit cards, each with a different name, and three hundred dollars in cash. There's also two i.d's with different members of the band "Poison" written under Sam's smiling face.

"That looks perfectly normal," I grin.

I run my fingers across the spines of crumbling old volumes and hesitantly press a palm into the bullet scars on my chest, the knife wound by my abdomen. My legs are covered in what I swear to God looks like claw marks, healed over and flesh raised. I stare in the mirror at the freckles on my face and the tattoo above my heart.

When Sam comes back, he pulls his shirt up over his head and changes.

We've got matching tattoos.

That's the gayest thing I've ever seen in my entire fucking life, and I almost snort half my coke up my nose from laughing.

"So," I start, and Sam raises his hand. I take a bite of my burger and give him a pointed look.

He looks down, at the books on the floor open to pages about witches spells and wendigos, at the pouches full of thyme I'd emptied, at the Latin words I was doodling on my napkin.

"You aren't going to believe me." He says pointedly.

I tap my foot against the top of his boot. "Try me, Sammy Winchester."

He tries to pull his leg back, but I catch it between two of mine. I grin at his bitch face.

"We're hunters."

I quirk my eyebrow. "That explains the guns, and nothing else."

He pulls in a deep breath. "We, uh. We don't hunt... Normal things."

My grin falls as he tells me everything.

Once he's done, I let pull his foot back.

"So." He says.

"So." I say back. "Witches. Huh."

"You got hit with a memory charm. I called Bobby, he's uh...he's like us, hunts down supernatural things and takes them out before they can kill people. He's looking for a way to reverse it."

"Can't we just ask her to undo it herself?" I ask. My fingertips feel numb. 

"What, you believe me?"

I shrug, not looking him in the eye. "Nope. Just tryna keep you distracted while I figure out a way to escape." He laughs at that, quietly.

"I dealt with her. While you were...still in the coma."

"Can they really classify it as a coma if I was only out for three days?"

"I basically admitted to killing somebody, and you're questioning medical theory again?"

I scrub a hand down my face. "Look, Sam. Either you're crazy or you're right. The only thing I know is that I was apparently right there beside you the whole fuckn' way." I finally look up at him. "How long have we known each other again?"

He holds my gaze. Swallows. "Decades."

Huh.

Dean Thompson and Sam Winchester. Monster hunters.

It had a nice ring to it.

"I get it. If you wanna go. I can give you some money and you can take the car and just get out of here." Sam's voice shakes as he says it. My chest  _aches_ as he says it.

"I don't know about any of this... monster bullshit, and I don't really know who the fuck I am, or who the fuck _you_ are but... there's this feeling in my  gut sayn' I can't leave you." I say. I tap my foot on his again. This time he taps back, gentle. The need to uncover who this guy is, this giant moose with the emo hair and the salads and the ancient leather spell books, smell of gun oil and girly shampoo, leaves my throat lumpy. It's so obviously insane yet I was right fuckn' here, before I lost my memories, riding the crazy train together with this kid. And it's not enough, I haven't had enough time with him and I'm beginning to understand that I wanna know everything about him. The why to his everything. Why does he share that bed and share that car and share this fucked up life with me? Why does he look at me, hesitantly, sometimes gently, sometimes angrily?

Why does he care about me so unconditionally?

"I'll think about it tomorrow."

Then I threw up.

While I'm bound to the shitty motel mattress, ("You just got out if the hospital, we aren't  leaving until I'm positive you aren't gonna faint and crash the car,") Sam brings me donuts, coffee, books, his laptop, anything, whatever I ask. He tolerates complaints and he tolerates erratic periods of taciturnity and he doesn't ask for thanks. If I talk, he replies, and doesn't flinch when I ask him to tell me about vampires, werewolves, ghosts. It's a long day of headaches and splitting pain, talking and talking about these impossible things that I can't help myself from getting dragged into. He forces me to eat soup. He laughs. 

He looks at me with soft eyes.

I think I'm falling in love with him.

That night, when he thinks I'm asleep, Sam smoothes back the hair from my forehead with a startlingly tender hand.

I catch his hand before he can pull away completely. I look up at him and he looks caught; pupils dilated, color rushing to his neck. My own breath catches. Did I make a mistake? But the other bed doesn't look used at all, its covered in fucking ammunition. I swallow the pounding of heart. Don't be a pussy, Dean Thompson.

“You’re not going to stay?”

The color spills from Sam's neck to flood his cheeks. He opens his mouth. His pulse sings, a startled bird trapped beneath my thumb. He blinks slowly; his chest seems to swell. An unsteady exhale buoys his reply to the ceiling.

“Alright.”

And he removes his socks.

I roll over and close my eyes, possibilities racing through my brain because _yes, yes, I was right, take that amnesia you weak mother fucker._ I feel the mattress sink and the sheets draw more tightly across the bed. Sam fumbles noisily with the lamp for a second, and the room goes dark. The silence is fractured by his breathing.

Boyfriends? Friends with benefits? Repressed homosexuals? I snort a laugh at the thought.

“Dean.” His voice carries that curious scratch again. Its killing me not to know its meaning. "Dean, what-"

"Shut up, Sasquatch." I say, flipping over and hiding my cockiness in Sam's shoulder. He tenses again. I don't push for more, just settle my hand over his gay ass tattoo and grin against his neck. "I'm amnesiac, not dying. I ain't gonna break in half."

He relaxes eventually. Even presses a leg up against mine under the sheets. I consider it a win.

Repressed faggots is lookn' more and more like an option at this rate.

The next day, when I wake up, the Impala is packed up with every book and gun and article of clothing. Sam is sitting ramrod straight on the opposite bed.

"I'm, uh. Bobby called. Said there's a haunting up in West Virginia."

I sit up gingerly, better than before but still feeling like I'd been bodily chucked against a concrete wall.

Which, according to Sam, I had been.

"Come with me."

He says it hurriedly, fists clenched in his jeans again.

I can't be getting the wrong idea.

I can't, because when I look at him I feel like I'm looking at an extension of myself, and I don't even know how we met, or how I discovered this world, or how fucking old I am.

But I don't know his favorite flavor of ice cream, or the noises he makes when he kisses, or the movies that make his pussy ass cry.

"Of course I'm coming with you."

He looks up sharply.

"I gotta see for myself whether or not the two of us are insane."

The tension leaves his body, grin blinding me and stealing my breath.

"Dean-"

"No chick-flick moments, dude." He laughs at that and shakes his head. 

"You say that a lot."

I grin. "You're laugh is adorable."

He gets that look in his eye that I can't stand not recognizing, almost guilty, almost scared.

"We can get there by sundown if we hit the road right now."

"Let's go, bitch."

He laughs again. "Jerk."

I drive, coordinates texted under the name "Bobby Singer" in my phone somehow making perfect sense in my brain. Sam doses against the window. He's got a strand of hair in his mouth.

I balance a plastic spoon on his nose and snicker.

Sam's phone vibrates in his jeans before I can wake him up. I fish it out and flip it open without thinking.

"Hello?"

"Dean?"

The voice sounds gruff, and a wave of affections sinks into my bones at the surprised tone.

"You must be Bobby." I grin and poke Sam in the side. He doesn't wake up. Damn.

He grunts. "Sam told me ya couldn't remember nothn'. Guess I didn't wanna believe it. Least you're alive and all you're limbs are intact. What the hell were you thinkn' jumpn' infront of a goddamn hex like that?"

I poke Sam in the side again. This time he wakes up and flinches back at the spoon on his nose. I laugh as he wines out an adorable little "Deeeean!"

"Well, I wouldn't exactly know seen' as I apparently got hit with a brain scrambler. I didn't even remember _baby."_

"You poor thing." He says apathetically. Bobby coughs over the phone while I grab onto Sam's thigh. This time he doesn't tense up, just pushes into the touch and mouths _who are you talking to?_ "I gotta say, I'm relieved you didn't jump ship. Sam said you were sceptical, and for good reason."

"Eh, I'm still sceptical." I grin and squeeze, inching up a bit higher as I flick on the turn signal, phone balanced between my shoulder and ear. "But I gotta reason to stay for now." I glance over at Sam, squirming in his seat when I slide in to rub at the inside of his thigh. He doesn't stop me, so I don't stop.

Bobby chuckles. I decide I like the sound. "Glad to hear it. I figure the haunting's gonna be pretty simple, its a good one to get back in the game with. Forty-five years ago, a woman working twords legalizing abortion ends up lynched up the tree outside her yard. Its been quiet ever since, but with the state elections coming up, pro life or pro choice whatever is bein' brought up in the debate, and people in the house are winding up dead."

I take a moment to let the fact that I'm not scared shitless sink in. I'm either fucked up or used to it, and I'm not in the mood to phsyco-analize myself when I can't even remember what I'm supposed to be phsycho-analizing. "What, she's just ganking random people who happen to stroll into her house caus' she's angry about current events?"

"Nah, the campaign team for one of the pro life candidates is set up in the house."

I wince, and Sam looks over again. I wink and give his leg a squeeze. He blushes and looks down, before covering my hand with his own. Boyfriends is looking more and more likely. "Bad luck, Bobby."

At the name, Sam's eyes go wide, and he tenses again.

"I already gave Sam the minor details, so just ask him to fill ya in." I don't respond because suddenly Sam is  _climbing over me_ to get to the phone, long ass arms squashing against my nose.

"Dude, what the hell!?" I yell, and Bobby says indignantly, "I beg your fucking pardon?"

"Gimme the phone, Dean!" He sounds desperate, weird guilt glint in his eyes again and I swerve the car.

"SAM, BACK OFF!" I try and keep us on the road while keeping gigantor away from the phone, why the hell does he want the phone?

"Its _my_ phone, Dean, _seriously,_ this isn't funny-"

"Do you  _want_ me to crash!?"

"What the hell is going on in there?" Bobby huffs.

I manage to get an elbow to the ribs while I'm pulling off to the side of the road, Sam getting a knee to the cheekbone.

"Dean, quit being such a jerk!" Sam struggles against the headlock I have him in, foot kicking into the backseat from the awkward position. A car honks at us as it drive by; I flip it off.

"Dude, quit being such a spaz! Why the hell can't I talk to Bobby, I'm not some fragile little snowflake-"

"This isn't about your fucking amnesia-"

"Than WHY THE HELL CANT I TALK TO BOBBY?"

"Do you Winchester's ever stop acting like five year olds?" Bobby asks.

I freeze.

Sam does too.

"I'll call you back" I mumble, before flipping the phone shut and dropping it on the floor.

Sam looks piss terrifies, face gone white and mouth opening and closing like a fish. "Dean, Dean, look, I was going to tell you, I swear-"

I yank his head forward and kiss him.

He gives a scared little squeak, and I use the opportunity to tilt his head back slightly, press my tounge just so- and he's gradually relaxing into it, shaking slightly when I run my hand down his spine and fist his gorgeous stupid hair.

When I finally let him go, he's catching his breathe, cheeks flushed, eyes confused and still so scared. "Dean, what-"

I kiss him hard and laugh, kiss his nose, kiss his cheeks, kiss him harder til he's shaking all over.

Apparently I'm good at this.

_fuck yes._

"You fucking idiot, why didn't you just  _tell_ me-" I cut myself off by kissing him again.

"Wait, you mean- what, you don't care?" Aw, the poor kid looks so confused.

"Is that why you didn't want me talkin' to bobby? Because you didn't want him to spill the beans? What, were you worried I'd stop  _feeling_ this way just 'cause I forgot why I do?" I laugh even harder, happiness bursting out of me like a gunshot, and I'm a lucky enough bastard to make that comparison in good faith.

My brain is racing, searching for all the information it can't remember, all the days and days of Sam I'm missing, but suddenly it doesn't matter so much.

Because the answer is so  _obvious._

"Mr. and Mr. Winchester. Fuck, I'm glad we took your last name, Sam Thompson would've sounded _terrible."_

We're married.

I don't catch the look on Sam's face because I'm kissing him again, and it feels like the first time, the best time.

Not boyfriends, not closeted queens, and I'm not in some fucking unrequited gay love triangle, thank fucking  _god._

I can't imagine what would've been worse than that.


	2. Sam's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is having an existential crisis over whether or not he should let Dean know that they're not actually married. Angst warning, oblivious Dean, DARK but also fluffed up smut?  
> This is a wierd chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAAAT, two updates in two days? What is the world coming to??  
> Leave a comment my lovelies! Enjoy!

I'm an idiot.

A stupid, weak, pathetic idiot.

Can you blame me?

Dean has gotten hit on the job before. Electrocution, bullet holes, knife to the gut till his intestines pulsed under Dad's army medic fingers. But this time was different, somehow. Because Dean wasn't cursing or screaming or making bad puns involving oral asfixiation.

He jumped in front of me, hex hitting him square in the chest, and dropped. Limp.

Unconscious and not breathing.

I'd never felt so much stone cold terror, breathe leaving my body and ice chipping into my ribcage. The witch disappeared, tires screeching somewhere in the distant corners of my brain as I desperatly performed CPR on what could've been a corpse.

_123, 123, 123_

"C'mon you bastard, don't you dare die on me, don't _you dare-"_

_123, 123, 123_

Mouth sealed over a slack jaw, breath pushed in twice.

_123123123fuckingworkgoddamnit-_

Dean coughs, twice, entire body heaving with the force of it, and goes limp.

But he's breathing.

When he opens his eyes in the hospital, I start letting myself breath too. 

"Dean," I say tentivly.

He tries to suck in a breath but just choke on the tube down his throat, artificially pumping air into his lungs.

"Dean, oh my god,  _Dean,_ thank god thank god c'mon, breathe, that's it, slowly now-"

I release my death grip on his hand to press gently on his chest, rubbing soothing circles through the hospital gown.

He tries to say something, but the tube in means it comes out warbled, warped, and he starts to hyperventilate.

I shush him, talk him down, mutter under my breathe, "stupid idea, why the  _hell_ would you jump I'm front of that hex you  _jerk."_  Dean quirks one eyebrow, (cocky little shit) and I can feel the tension leaving my body in one big sigh. He's okay. I roll my eyes and squeeze his hand tighter, nurses rushing in as the heart monitor beeps faster. 

"You scared me," I whisper, not looking at him. Any second now he's gonna call me out on my "girly bullshit," crack a joke and a grin and ignore the fact that he was legally dead for three minutes. His eyebrows scrunch up, boyish freckles peppered under blue eye bags. He squeezes my hand back, weak and barely there but reassuring all the same, big brother on his fucking death bed still trying to keep me safe. I wanna smooth my thumbs over his cheek bones, tuck his chin over my head, kiss the freckles on his scrunched up nose and make everything stop. 

Instead, I hold on as hard as I can, long as I can, long as he'll let me.

"Sorry, I'll... let go in a minute." 

My thumb runs along his pulse point, tube finally out of his mouth and he takes his first shaky exhale on his own. He drinks some water, and color starts coming back to his face, his neck, cold fingers warming up around mine.

Rosy cheeked.

Heart beat.

_Alive._

\--------------------------------

Im such a _fucking idiot._

Amnesia. The doctors say its caused by blunt force trauma to the head.

I say it was a memory charm by the trophy wife bitch I ganked three days ago.

There's no recollection, no hint of recognition when he looks at me, at baby, at the nacho cheese fries he won't stop talking about every time we pass through this part of the country. He's wide eyed and _curious,_ can't stop touching the spell books. Won't stop messing around with the guns.

He won't stop touching me.

Hands flirt through my hair when he walks by, fingers tapping on the back of my hand when we're sitting in the library. Feet knock feet under diner tables. Hands hold mine when we're buying salt in Wal-Mart.

I can't tell him no.

And I _can't fucking tell him._

Like I said, I'm an idiot. Weak, pathetic idiot who can't stand the thought of letting him know that the name he thinks he chose was his before I was even born.

Because I remember being fourteen, knobby kneed and terrified, first crush on a beautiful boy with freckles on his nose. I remember the confusion, the longing, eyes clenched tight with three fingers inside pretending they belonged to somebody else. I can't tell him, because I've wanted this for what feels like decades.

I always know when it's going to happen; no idea why, maybe some unconscious shift in the air, somehow, like adding a ton of weight, slipping the ground from beneath my feet. Shallow tries to hide, to avoid the inevitable (Dean, _Dean)_  turn out useless. I can't hide, can't say no to him, can't make myself stop kissing him back when it's all I want to do. Curled up in the car, spread out on a rooftop, salting a fucking _corpse,_  in coffee shops - it doesn't matter. Dean always gets to me eventually.

The touches are familiar, like Dean's making up our history in his head and assumes it's always been like this. But this is Dean, still Dean, still cock rock and chili fries and Dr. Sexy MD, isn't it? Stupid, absent-minded, big brother Dean, six feet of fatless tissue and dirty blonde hair, each palm wide enough to entirely cover one side of my face.

He has this cheeky shit eating grin on his mouth every time I flinch when he places his hand on my thigh in the car, higher and higher every time. He looks happier and happier every time.

Content.

Excited.

_Curious._

It's midnight when the ghost of Adriana Lochevsky appears, temperature dropping ten degrees and lights flickering out.

Dean takes one look at her and practically shits himself.

"HOLY MOTHER OF FUCK, IT'S REAL."

"Dean, you're gonna give our position away," I hiss at him, annoyance and maybe a little bit of fear, (because Dean's blackout terror is _infectious,_ ) easy job made more difficult by the death grip Dean has on my arm and the rock salt rounds that go off every five minutes along side the signature shriek my brother lets out at the slightest sound.

"IT'S REAL, IT'S REAL, SWEET BABY JESUS IT'S ALL REAL WE'RE NOT CRAZY OH MY GOD-"

"DEAN, just calm down!"

"Dude, there's a fucking  _dead gay feminist_ from the nineteen seventies floating around and you're telling me to  _calm down?"_ There's this glint in his eyes, adrenaline and fear and something like joy making my throat close up, because my brother has been sewing up skin and burning corpses since I learned my ABC's, but he thinks this is his first hunt. "It's one thing to look at-at amulets a-and devils traps and salt lines and another to actually  _experience it!"_ He gives a breathless laugh and squeezes my hand, grounding himself the only way he knows how. "This is insane. It's real, we're fucking minster hunters." 

I roll my eyes. "And we're gonna be  _dead_ monster hunters unless you stop fangirling."

"I'm not-"

"Yes you are, now shut up and get the fucking salt."

Dean grins, sweat and dust smudging his nose, Dad's leather jacket full of Jack Daniels and gunpowder sitting unknowingly on his shoulders. "Oh Sammy, I get all tingly when you take control like that."

"I hate you."

"Then why'd you marry me, dickwad?"

My blood runs cold.

Dean shrieks and shoots another salt round at the ghost of Adriana.

I can't tell him.

Once its finally over, body salted and burned and the smell of smoke soaked into my T-shirt, we head back to the motel.

 "You can have first shower." I mumble, exhaustion catching up to me now that the adrenaline has disapaited. Easy hunt, he said. It'll get Dean back in the game, he said. Bobby didn't account for Deans complete lack of subtlety and trigger happy muscle memory. "I think I'm gonna pass out for the next twelve hours."

Dean laughs behind me, sore and high on the hero complex he'll never admit to having. "I don't think I've ever been more awake, dude.  _Ghosts."_

"Yeah, ghosts. If you're not gonna shower, I am-"

He cuts me off mid turn with his hands on my hips and his mouth on mine.

He holds me like this when he kisses him, most of the time; fingers spread wide into my hair, balls of his hands cradling my jaw, nose bumping gently when he tilts me. I'm fucking starving for it. Exhaling reminds me of the hollowness I keep. Inhales drive every single thorn, every pain and cramp and misery back into my guilty selfish fucked up head.There's nowhere to go, nowhere to push but forward because it'd kill me to ever pull back.

The worst moments, the ones that hurt the most and throb the best are when Dean can't hold back that mildest noise of happiness, a faint whimper, and it makes me shudder so violently that Dean can feel it wherever I'm pressed up against him ( _everywhere_ ).

Dean pecks, pulls lips between his teeth; puppy play. He hums little surprised sounds at every swipe of tounge, feels my breath coming quicker and shorter, the heat between my legs exploding further. The hands get rougher and I try to think of old ladies or dead puppies but Dean grunts and the fantasy is gone, my brother back in my face, my mouth, everywhere.

The wall against my back takes me by surprise. When did we move? Dean sandwiches me there, between drywall and beautiful big brother, skin and rotten wallpaper. He kisses and sucks until my mouth feels full of blood, lips pulsing with it.

Dean grinds his dick into my crotch and gives a little contented sigh, smiles into the girlfriend kisses he's smothering me with. My stomach drops at the realization that I'm hard up, hips moving involentarily forwards.

I'm fucking disgusting.

A part of me thrashes, kicks my kidneys, makes me jolt.

 _You disgusting. Piece. Of. Trash. Feel this, yeah? Feel this? This pain, the churn of your insides? This is what you_ deserve _._

Eyes tightly shut, mouth full of spit and lips and tongue that isn't my own.

Dean's knees start to shake when my hand forces itself into the waistband of his jeans. He has to hold on to my shoulders or he'll fall, laughing out loud at the too eager elbow I accidently jerk into his ribs with my despretness. I feel terrible for it, to put so much pressure into touching my brother. But Dean seems to love it.

_You're practically molesting him._

I gasp and rip my hand back, shove him hard.

_You're raping your Dean, your De, you're daddy you fucking freak-_

"Hey, hey," Dean mutters, gentle hands peeling mine off my of face, breath coming  _too fast too fast oh my God what am I doing._ "I'm not gonna break, Sammy. I'm okay, it's not too fast, I swear."

Of course he thinks I'm trying to ease him into this, thinks I'm being an overprotective husband instead of a mentally ill baby brother.

"I want you to touch me." He murmers, pulling my hands forward on his chest, lower, stomach, let's them rest there. The smile cracking his face is everything I've ever known, big brother forhead kisses and tickle fights and tomato rice soup when I get sick. "I wanna know everything. I wanna get to know it all again."

"I want everything I can't remember."

How can I say no to the only person I've ever listened to?

One case comes after another, re-teaching the rituals and re-learning his way around a witness. I watch his eyes light up when he realizes he can speak Latin, makes fart jokes in an ancient language nonstop all day till I shut him up with my hands on his chest and my tounge in his mouth. Dean can't get over life on the road. Free ice, shitty pools, massage chairs and blood stains on the bed. It's been a week but he's still excited, every day an adventure, every day a new discovery. He reads like crazy, let's me drive with his nose buried in ancient Celtic literature about vampires, popping up frequently to ask an unlimited amount of questions. He gets quiet when I explain the map of scars on his body.

_That was last fall, in an abandoned asylum. There was this ghost called Dr. Ellicott who infected people with rage. You saved two teenagers._

_You were twenty three, wendigo hunt in south Carolina. You were stuck in a damp cave for two days with a six year old. It almost took the whole kidney, you're lucky Bobby managed to find you, dickwad. You saved the kid's life._

_You were twenty one, on a bus to Bobby's place when a werewolf hulked out and ate the driver. Nasty infection, had to strap you down till we were sure you weren't gonna... you know. You saved thirty four people._

_You were fifteen, hunting a shriga in New York. Turns out it was just a pedophile. You jumped in front of a bullet, saved three kids. I stitched you up afterwards._

_Oh, you were twelve and burned your hand on the toaster._

I don't let him know the parts where the wendigo ate the kids mom, where the ghost made me try to kill him, where John stitched him up during Standford time. I bend the truth, make it easier to choke down. A fairy tale villin, a shining, humble hero. PG-13, almost family friendly. I tell him the stories left in his skin in the way I have always read them. Scars left in the wake of saving people. Hunting things.

A cruel, addictive business.

"Wow. We've known each other for a long time, haven't we?"

Keep your eyes on the road, eyes on the road. "We kinda...grew up together."

He _hms._ Doesn't look up from the book, just reaches over and drags my hand off the wheel to place on his thigh. I'm shaking. "You know me better than I know myself."

I don't move my hand. I can't. "I always have."

"You can tell me about it. I ain't gonna break."

He places his hand over mine, covers it with callouses earned from bullets and bile, burn on his palm that I insisted I had to kiss better,  _You always kiss my booboos, now I gotta kiss yours._

Yes you will. Jesus christ, you'll break.

"I wanna know everything about you."

_You can't. It would kill you._

He's content. Relaxed. Excited about living and blissfully unaware that his dad is dead his heart's been broken since I was seventeen. It's like it was when we were kids. Innocent in our affection and untroubled by death and loss and grief. Back when Dean's smile wasn't strained and his eyes eyes still twinkled and thirteen-year-old Sam would jerk off to the sound of his brother having sex with two fingers down his throat.

I can't sleep these days, knawing guilt chisling away at me every time Dean's oblivious  hand curls protectively around mine. It's been two weeks, when I wake up to the distant feeling of skin on skin.

I lie still, keep my breathing shallow. It's raining outside, grimy hotel windows shadowed by streetlights. There's an empty can of coke on the floor because Dean isn't drinking, hasn't touched the stuff since he lost his memories. The rain is pouring down. Dean is still behind me. (I can _smell him_ ).

I sigh and shift, a burst of impatient movements, back and forth in barely leashed aggression and irritation. Dean's arms tighten around me and bleary half-whispers meet my ears, nonsense words I'm having teouble understanding, shushing me, trying to soothe, telling me to sleep too.

But I can't. Never can, these days, even before Dad died and Dean lost memories. Insomnia brought on by nightmares or Visio s or whatever the fuck is happening in my head. Caffeine keeps me going with the negative side affects of sleep deprivation and making me want to Cha Cha real smooth.

Fingers dance over my back. Thick and hard and re-learning the things our father had drilled into our heads. From one shoulder to the other, over the neck and back down my knobby spine, gently bumping every vertebra on their way. We used to do this a lot when we were kids; Dean wrote out words that I would guess, drew a dick on my back to annoy me. Connected the dots with my moles. It used to send me right off, lulled into sleep fastwr than the over the counter medication. It makes me shiver, the thought that this could leak over into a Dean whose head is full of imagination and excitement and misinterpreted love (because Dean loves me, always loved me, I was his _baby.)_  In the summer Dean's freckles pop out like weeds and keep him from really developing a tan and Dean hates them for it. But girls like them. I liked them. I connected the dots and fingered myself to the mental picture, the freckles on my big brothers back.

Lips on my neck send my world over the edge of gravity.

It's just the hint of a kiss, really, nothing more, and maybe I'm mistaking it with something else, maybe I'm dreaming right now; yeah, must be.

Another, firmer.

I tremble. Squeeze my eyes shut.

Dean sighs happily and wraps a big brother-hand around my waist. It slides to the front, over a belly that hardens to stone underneath those sweat-slick layers of skin. I fake a soft rolling movement that could pass as something happening while being asleep, Dean simply giggles, tired and content, follows and presses bodies together even tighter.

"What, I was never the big spoon?" He kisses the words to skin that's longed to feel him since I knew what it meant to feel.

I can feel it against my ass then. Hot and hard and oblivious and just undeniably  _there_.

"I can see how I might've fallen for your geeky ass." Kisses fall on my body like raindrops on the roof, the ground, every bare surface. "It certainly could've been  _looks,_ Mr. "Ugly purple sweatshirt."

Why can't I have this.

Why can't I have this.

"Why can't I have this."

Tremors rock my body. Dean's lips stop moving on my shoulder. 

"...Sammy?"

Don't cry don't cry don't cry

"Hey, I was just Kidd's about the sweatshirt, I actually think it looks adorable on you-"

 _He doesn't want this, he can't remember, oh god he smells so nice,_ "Why can't I just have this."

Arms tightening around me. "You got me. You got all a me. Why the fuck wouldn't you?"

Screaming. Crying. Dean begging me  _please don't go, please, you're my baby, I can't do this without you._

A bus ticket to Palo Alto. A year and a half with Jess.

Dean kissing the back of my neck. "I...I know I'm not...him. Your Dean. I don't even remember our fucking  _wedding,_ or your favorite color, or where we went on our first date. But... I'm still here. I'm still me, even if I can't remember why I'm feeling this way I'm still here."

_Please don't leave me_

Open up, here comes the train, choo choo.

_I'll do anything._

"Stop fightn' it. I ain't gonna break."

No. You won't.

"I wanna know everything. You can tell me."

Why can't I have this.

I keep my voice steady, heart pounding, eyes wet. "It was the Fourth of July."

"What was?"

Squeeze your eyes shut, don't cry don't cry. "Our first date. Fourth of July, '97."

I can feel him relaxing around me, burrowing closer. "Damn. We've been together for a real fuckn' long time, huh?"

I let out a laugh, shaky and painful. "You stole some fireworks and root beer. Drove me it to a big empty field and nearly blew yourself up three times. I thought it was hilarious."

"I was tryn' to impress you, huh?"

It's getting easier, the words coming out smoother as I twist the events softly enough that I almost believe it myself. "You always did. Crazy stunts to make me laugh. Couldn't stand it when you weren't the center of my attention."

Laughter. Sleepy and sugar sweet. "I can believe that. Was I nervous?"

"You tried to hide it, but ended up choking on half a watermelon and needed me to do the heimlich manuver." This could work. Little white words twisted into something ugly and believable. This could work. "You kissed me."

"First kiss?"

_I'll do anything, baby please I'll do anything-_

"Yeah. First kiss. Your lips were chapped."

A sigh. A snuggle. "Thanks for telln' me. Now go the fuck to sleep." 


End file.
